Taming therooster on topof my head

My Mom, Helen Rowland, who is 93 years young and still quite beautiful, was a knockout in her younger days. She had thick, dark auburn hair that shined like a new penny. Each strand was full of body and bounce with a slight curl. She could have been a Breck girl in one of those iconic shampoo advertisements that spanned from 1937 to 1981.

But, nothing is ever perfect in this world, including my mother’s amazing head of hair. Hidden beneath the weight of all those reddish tresses were gremlins — a head full of cowlicks. The wayward locks could not be seen when my mother was younger and her hair was longer. But as she aged and she went for shorter hairstyles, the cowlicks would bend her beautiful red hair every which way.

I look very much like my mother. I have her perfectly straight white teeth and my eyes are shaped exactly like hers. Sadly, I did not get her thick, dark auburn hair. Mine is dark brown and not very thick at all. But, I did receive the gift of her cowlicks. Thanks, Mom!

Every day when I get out of bed, my hair looks like I spent the night in a wind tunnel. Dan, my husband of 35 years, knows about “the hair problem.” In fact, we joke about it regularly.

My hairdresser, Deb, knows about “the hair problem,” too. She is a goddess to me. Every five weeks, she’s like a lumberjack cutting the cowlicks down to size and making me look somewhat normal. If I had the choice between a trip to Tahiti or showing up for my hair appointment with Deb, I would choose the hair appointment without hesitation.

But, as good as Deb is at repairing the explosion on my head, most of the time it’s up to me. In order to tame the devil cowlicks, I must perform a hair cleansing ritual each morning — washing my hair, blow-drying it and bringing out the heavy artillery, a curling iron to tame the uncooperative cowlicks that have overtaken my head, especially at the crown. As a finishing touch, I do a comb-over that would make Donald Trump envious, fluffing the curls manufactured by the curling iron over the cowlicks around the crown.

But, I don’t always have the time or patience for hair exorcism. On those days, Dan calls me “the rooster” because of the gigantic cockscomb on top of my head. If we have to take our 12-year-old son, Jarid, to an early hockey game on Saturday or Sunday mornings, I go as “the rooster” so I can sleep in an extra 30 minutes rather than fuss with my evil cowlicks.

And sometimes, I am just plain lazy. Such was the case earlier this week, when I slept in instead of showering. “I’m cold and tired. Guess I’m gonna be a rooster today,” I told Dan, who was half asleep next to me.

I got up and went to the bathroom to wash up and put on a little makeup and deodorant. I also made a half-hearted attempt to tame the rooster. When I was finally ready for work, I walked back into the bedroom to get my coat and purse.

Dan was still lolling in bed, but looked up at me. “Hmmm, what’s going on today?” he said playfully.

“Nothing. Just going to work,” I said dryly.

“Oh, cause I was wondering, you know, wondering about your hair,” Dan said.

“What about my hair,” I said, irritated.

“Is it Costume Day at the office, or something?” Dan chortled.

“Yup,” I said, finally getting the joke. “Cock-a-doodle-doo!”

Then I flapped my arms and strutted around the bedroom a few more times while crowing loudly.

After my rooster impression, I jumped on the bed and we both laughed till our sides ached.

Then, I morphed into Norma Desmond, the pathetic, attention-crazy actress played by Gloria Swanson in “Sunset Boulevard.”

“Alright, Mr. DeMille, I’m ready for my close-up,” I vamped, repeating Norma’s famous line as I stroked my ugly cowlicks.

And with that, I turned on my heel and left to face the day as a barnyard bird.

Guess I won’t be skipping that morning shower for a while.

Mary Pat Rowland is the managing editor of Foster’s Daily Democrat and reachable at mprowland@fosters.com.